


the bones of better men

by auxanges



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon Rewrite, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Psionic Injuries, Quadrant Vacillation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 18:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19362271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: The Orphaner says, “I want in.”Your purr gets stuck. You cough out half a sweep’s worth of disbelief before Mituna smacks you between the shoulder blades. “What the fuck?”





	the bones of better men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SleepingDragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepingDragons/gifts).



> "I'd love Dualscar getting sucked into the revolution somehow and falling in love/hate/quadrant smearing mess with Signless, Disciple and Psiioniic.
> 
> I love hurt comfort, so thats a great idea. Maybe patching each other up after a battle? Or reassuring each other that they can do this, they can make a difference and fix Alternia.
> 
> I'd really like it if they actually end up winning. But if you decide not to, then maybe something more in the middle of the revolution? Just don't actually end it with Signless dying and everything else that canonly happens to them."
> 
> my favourite thing, rubbing my hands all over ancestor lore

He finds you when the season is at the cusp of warming again, dragged ashore with his command under the guise of resupply. The three of you are watching twigs snap quietly in the last breaths of your fire when Meulin’s head snaps up. At your right, Mituna does not move—he can be so still—but you see the current under his forearms and at his throat build, anticipating the worst. 

You have never been very good at seeing this “worst” in people. Not even when the newcomer emerges from the brush, hands at hip height and palms facing you. 

“This is it?” says the Orphaner to the throne. “This is the crew givin the Empress a tension headache?” 

You open your mouth to answer, but Meulin beats you to it, lunging at him with her teeth bared. He brings up an arm (again, weaponless) in defence, and she has to catch herself on it to avoid being clotheslined by a troll twice her size with strength handed by the sea. “No welcome wagon for saltbloods. I get ya. Won’t take up much time or resources, I’m the quick sort.” 

Mituna snorts. It’s as much as you’re likely to get out of him; for all the progress you have made together, easing him into freedom, old habits die hard in the presence of beings as cold as Dualscar. 

“Pull up some log,” you offer. “Love, let him go, come back to the hearth.”

Meulin drops down, all grace and teeth. Dualscar brushes off the sleeve of his coat absently, taking a few steps towards your fire. For the time being, he remains standing. You kind of wish your mother were here—not because you’re afraid (you aren’t), but she has a knack for knowing the tells of highbloods, markers that are too deep even for your love to discern. It’s how she tended to you, after all. 

“You have five minutes,” Mituna warns, each of his words strained on either side of the vowels. One of Dualscar’s fins snaps like a pennant, perhaps in agreement, but he says nothing. Only waits.

“If you wanted to speak to me,” you tell the Orphaner, holding out a mug, “I go into town every night until week’s end. Why not wait to ask me whatever deep philosophical shit mariners stew over?” 

“I’m not here to talk meanins of life with you,” he answers, accepting the drink. He grimaces when he takes a swig, the gills at his neck flaring a vivid hue. 

“That’s unfortunate. I’m pretty exclusively on the life train, it’s what’s got most trolls mad at me in the first place.” 

Dualscar finally sits. Meulin settles at your side again, tossing back her hair to keep her focus on the newcomer. 

“I came cause you’re on the precipice of war, little seer.” His hands dwarf the mug you gave him. “I have sixteen stacks of pressin papers in my cabin and twice as many conscription drones on standby.”

“Four minutes twenty-eight seconds.”

You tip your head against Mituna’s arm and let your purr drop into your chest, waving a hand in a _spit it out_ motion.

The Orphaner says, “I want in.” 

Your purr gets stuck. You cough out half a sweep’s worth of disbelief before Mituna smacks you between the shoulder blades. “What the fuck?” It’s the least eloquent you’ve felt since you started this whole thing. 

“You’re makin waves, you and your lot. Much as some would like to pretend, not everything that comes outta your flap is untrue.” Dualscar does not elaborate on this, and you don’t ask him to. Instead, he continues: “Change don’t come natural deepside. I’ve been givin it some thought, and it could use a little push, is how I come to conclude.”

Meulin narrows her eyes. “What’s the catch?” 

“Catch?” He fakes offense, and opens up like a fucking book behind your eyes—the buffed plates of naval armour shrink into the unassuming short sleeves of a plain tee, the twin tracks of scar tissue across his face spring away towards his hairline. The creak of the ocean in his voice pitches up into the lilting baritone of a boy who has no idea what he wants to be. 

You think you understand the Orphaner a lot more. 

“One step out of line,” you say finally, “and there won’t be anything left of you to bury at sea.”

Dualscar grins at you. There’s a second row of incisors behind his smile. “I reckon we’ll get on just fine, little seer.”

* * *

 

He comes back two nights later, just as the sky begins to lighten and your mother is already shooing you all to shelter. You watch them exchange a look before she follows your lovers into the cave. 

“You look terrible,” you greet him, because he does: heavy circles under his eyes make the violet in them glare at you like searchlights—like drones—and his fins are folded like paper. 

“I found it,” Dualscar replies, cutting to the chase. There is efficiency carved into his bones, a sense of purpose he clings to unconsciously. How long did it take him to accept that he wanted to question all of this? 

“Found what?” 

“A weak point. A glitch in the strategy system. Exploit it, you bag yourself a couple extra seasons a head start.” 

You have to ask. “This glitch, is it in your fleet?”

“Aye.” It’s not any colder than the rest of his speech, but you still wrap your cloak tighter around you. 

“And that doesn’t…I don’t know. Bother you?” 

Dualscar looks at you like he pities you. Not in the way you pity Meulin, or the way your mother pities you. It’s the kind of look you expect from the scribe of your death sentence, you suppose. “You live as long as I do, you tend not to waste time on social circles.”

“That sounds lonely.”

He does not acknowledge your comment. “They’ll be within striking distance by dusk. Day movement is tricky, but the fleet’s been fitted for it. It’ll give us a thin timeframe but the coastline has drop-offs that suit for cover just fine.”

The plan rattles off like a production line, thoughts that you, in your short life of avoiding war, would never have considered; thoughts that your clade might have come up with a little too late. It settles in the hollow of your chest. “What are you going to do?”

“Little seer, that’s for me to know and you to not worry your overpumpin little pusher about.”

You worry about a great many things. It’s not clear to you whether Dualscar says this because he knows how full your sympathy plate already is, or because he doesn’t consider himself worthy to be on it. 

“There’s one more thing,” he says, dragging you back to the present. “I need to bring your psion with me.” 

Your blood freezes, melts, freezes again. “You can’t—”

“Relax.” Dualscar actually raises a hand, fingers splayed, and you fight down the urge to take it in your own and trace the worn lifeline: from here, you can see patches of it missing. “I got no intention of putting him in a line of fire.”

You drag your hands down your face, in part to hide your uncertainty and in part to keep them occupied. “He’s the only one who can make that decision,” you concede. 

“So I’ll ask him. I promise I don’t explode talkin to lowbloods.” 

The sky is an ashy grey, threatening to split in two above your heads. Dualscar follows your gaze up, his empty eye far away. For a handful of his heartbeats (and several more of yours), you give him a nod. “Come shelter with us.”

His fins unfold towards you before snapping back at attention. “You certain?”

“You don’t have time to make it back to the beach, even with those freakishly nice legs of yours.” Without waiting for him to process your accidental concession, you extend your hand, finally letting yourself invite him to touch you. “Come on.”

(So many people try to touch you, in cities, in narrow straits of road, to see if the rumours really are true. You shake them off and wait until you’re back in your home of the night to let Meulin and Mituna cover any prints that may have reached your skin with their own, their mouths and fingers and bodies.)

The Orphaner’s skin is freezing, and his grip is fierce enough to snap all the bones in your wrist with a flick. He meets your eyes again, and you give his hand a squeeze.

* * *

No one sleeps. Rest is a rare commodity among your family, with Meulin waking at the slightest change of breeze and Mituna withstanding up to three patches before he can so much as power nap. Dualscar does not seem to mind—he props himself against the cave wall, elbows on his knees, and waits to be addressed. 

You all slowly come alive: Mom bows out to grab some food, and Dualscar watches her leave with a curious cock of his head. You motion Meulin over to braid her hair, and she motions Mituna over to dig her thumbs into his migraine. Silence enfolds you in heavy wings. 

Until he says, almost under his breath, “Don’t suppose fugitives carry cards on em?”

The three of you look at each other, then at the Orphaner. Then Mituna kind of sighs and flicks a deck free of his sylladex. 

He teaches you Masthead, and Kick the Bucket, and six variants on Go Fish, each more vulgar than the last. You teach him Spit, and Ash-hand, and Crooked Fang, which has been Meulin’s favourite since she bit a chunk out of Mituna’s two of clubs. 

Halfway through your third round of Jack O’Diamonds, Mituna says, “Okay.”

Dualscar looks up from his hand. You’ve been trying to flag tells on his fins, but the surprise on his face right now is the closest you’ve gotten. “Okay?”

“Okay, whatever you need me to do that you keep staring at me over your cards, I’ll do it. How small is the Empire’s manners budget? Y’all have accountants?” 

He actually laughs at that. It is a deep sound, carving its way under your feet. “Perfect. I promised your seer I’d bring you back in one piece.”

“Kankri,” you say.

Three pairs of eyes swivel to look at you, now. 

“My name’s Kankri. You don’t have to go wearing it out, but consider it a gesture of good faith to give it to you.” 

Dualscar shifts. He isn’t wearing armour, today: you can see the rustle of his shirt from his gills remembering not to breathe. “Well—”

You cut him off; a raised hand. “I already know yours.”

He freezes. 

“It’s in your handshake. In your eye, there.” You point at the blank canvas surrounded by spidery scar tissue. “I hope you’re better at hiding when you head out in a few hours.”

Bit by bit, his shoulders loosen again, and he sinks back against the wall. “Shuffle em again,” he decides, tossing his cards back into your little circle. “Kankri’s feelin lucky.”

* * *

They’re gone for two and a half long, long hours. Your mother is still out, but safe, self-sufficient. Meulin’s taken over your hair. 

“Do you think it was prudent?” you ask, twisting in her lap to look at her. “Sending them out alone?”

She turns your head back to the front. “You don’t have it in you to raise a hand, love. Buddying up with a seadweller isn’t going to change that.” 

You seize one of her wrists to plant a kiss on. “Maybe not. But maybe it’ll change him.”

Meulin says, “I don’t think he needed changing to begin with.” 

There’s a crash from outside, then—a stumble of noise heavy with unknowns—and then they resurface. Dualscar’s sleeves are rolled up; you can see the faintest of strains at his arms and throat. In his arms, Mituna is unscathed, the heels of his hands are pressed against his ears. When you jump up to see him, your love on your tail, all he does is mumble something you can’t understand. 

“Deeps. He’s a fuckin sun,” Dualscar grunts. The gouges across his face are alive with colour again, and you try not to look too long. 

“He’s likely overheated. Can you keep him a while longer?” 

“Sure thing, chief,” he says, hoisting Mituna higher. You ache from heel to horntip. 

The cave is mercifully cool in the night hours. Meulin helps extricate Mituna from Dualscar’s grip, setting his head in the seadweller’s lap. As they work, you log their respective states a little more closely: there are bright purple scorch marks along the Orphaner’s wrists and the outside meat of his hand. Mituna’s eyes are responsive when you pry them open, and he swears at you with enough enunciation to rule out pan damage. 

Meulin asks for you. “Did you do it?” 

“Oh, aye. We did it.” Dualscar raises an arm, lowers it, then raises it again before you guide his hand into Mituna’s hair. “The ranks are like to regroup in a lower strait. Seein as you move around quicker than sentries can follow, I doubt they’ll look in the surroundin areas again.”

There are no specifics, and you do not ask for them. He made good on his word to bring your psion back to you. He hadn’t promised himself back in one piece, but you’re going to take that as an additional victory. 

Meulin shifts closer to him again, until their shoulders touch, pointing out where to run the pads of his fingers along Mituna’s horns and temples. When his muscles go slack and he rubs his jaw against the Orphaner’s thigh, the latter lets out a startled bubble of noise. Centuries drop out from under him, and you’re the one to laugh. It’s painted with relief. 

“Cronus,” you say, because you can. You don’t have anything to follow it up with; you just tap one of his boots and grin, letting the phonemes find their way around your mouth. 

(Later, your mouth will find your way around his, but there is time for that. He has gifted you time with little asked for in return.)

It seems to suit him fine. 

**Author's Note:**

> id love to write more of this eventually when my brain cells and hands remember how to work as one


End file.
